


ex cinere

by devluna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Stanford Era, Torture, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6014053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devluna/pseuds/devluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, I’m almost impressed. Your daddy would be so proud of you for sticking it out this long, not selling him out like the good little soldier boy you are. But, you know what, you may be willing to sacrifice yourself for him, but I think I know someone that wouldn’t be too happy about your dying for John.”</p>
<p>Dean’s heart must have stopped, it must have. <i>No, no, God</i> please <i>no</i>, he begged, but God wasn’t listening.</p>
<p> “A little birdy told me that Sammy boy is going to a party tonight with all of his delightfully normal, boring Stanford friends,” Azazel smirked. “I think we should go liven the place up. Ready to go crash a party, Deano?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ex cinere

**Author's Note:**

> Follows canon pretty much up until the start of the series, then veers of course a lil.
> 
> Warnings: Mentioned rape, not described explicitly.  
> Rating for language, mentioned rape, and violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Pity.

It’s the steady, slow drip of the ceiling leaking water that finally wakes him. The infuriatingly gentle _plip plip_ ’s continue to rain down Dean’s face as he scrunches his eyes closed, trying to block out the the light. Not that there was much of that to be found in this lovely and presumably underground cell. Regardless, his head was pounding like he’d taken a crowbar to the back of the skull. Blinking his eyes open and immediately groaning and slamming them back shut, Dean wasn’t all too sure that that wasn’t exactly what had happened. Jesus, he hadn’t had a headache this bad since the last time he’d sailed straight into a tombstone. At least that time he’d gotten to wake up in a reasonably decent motel bed.

Hunters didn’t let trivial things like headaches slow them down, or so Dean told himself as he tried valiantly not to vomit all over himself while taking stock of his surroundings. Not much to see. He’d been right in his initial analysis: he was underground. He could faintly hear sound coming from above, footsteps and voices. He was seated in a metal chair bolted to the floor, hands bound behind his back and legs bound to the chair. Normally slipping a pair of cuffs would be easy, but Dean just couldn’t get his hands to cooperate or his brain to stop moving so sluggishly. Either he had one hell of a concussion, or whoever had taken him had drugged him. Given his luck, probably both.

For the life of him, Dean couldn’t remember what had happened the day before, or what he’d been doing, or who had taken him. Thoughts and ideas swam and lurched sickeningly through his head, and Dean decided to give up on forcing his memory to cooperate for the moment. It was much more important to figure out how to get out of here than to figure out what fugly had taken him anyways.

The worst part about hunting alone wasn’t the loneliness, it was the knowledge that you didn’t have backup, and you didn’t have anyone wondering where the hell you were. No one would be looking for Dean, and if that thought stung something fierce, he did his level best to shove it down deep where all his other painful thoughts were buried. He hadn’t heard from his dad in months, and it’d been longer still since he’d heard from Sam.

“Dean, Dean, Dean, you surprise me.”

Dean bolted upright, or at least tried to. Bile rose in his throat at the sudden movement. He watched warily as a man he didn’t recognize strolled down the stairs into the cell, along with two lugs who looked to be mostly muscle mass and not much else.

“You know, I really thought it would be easy to track you down,” he continued, “but look at you! Not bad, not bad. We had to track you for weeks. Maybe you’re not quite as useless a hunter as I originally thought. That could be useful.”

The man’s voice was almost a physical thing, oily and revolting and it sent shivers down Dean’s spine. Something about him seemed off, unnatural, almost like-

The man’s, the _demon_ ’s, eyes flashed yellow. _Azazel_ , Dean’s mind supplied. The last thing he’d heard from his dad before he dropped off the face of the earth was that John had discovered something important, and that he knew the name of the demon that had killed his mom: Azazel. He didn’t have to look at the lugs to know their eyes would flash black if provoked.

“Now, Dean, I’m sure you have places to go, monsters to kill, all that wholesome good hunter stuff you Winchesters love so much. But see, I have a problem, and you’re going to help me solve it first.”

“Go to hell,” Dean replied cheerfully.

One of the demon lackeys punched him low in the stomach and he doubled over, dry heaving from the pain and the nausea still coursing through him.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezed out and leveled a mutinous glare at the demon.

“Let’s try that again, Dean,” Azazel returned almost amicably with his smile stretched unnaturally wide across his face. He leaned down with his hands resting on the arms of the chair, face inches away from Dean’s. “And I want to be perfectly clear. I don’t really care about you. You’re not a threat, and I have some ideas about ways you could be useful to me in the future. So, you help me, and I let you go on your merry way.”

“What do you want?” Dean had zero intention of helping the bastard, but he couldn’t help being curious.

“Your _daddy_ ,” Azazel said the word with no small amount of malice, “has something that I want, something very special. Unfortunately, he knows that, and he’s gone into hiding. Not very honorable, to be sure, a little cowardly one might even say. But, when I do see him, I’ll have to commend him on his ingenious use of ancient wards against demons.

“You know, while I peel the skin off his body and feed it to him strip by chewy strip,” he finished with a wink, letting go of the chair and stepping back.

Dean gritted his teeth and swallowed down the curses and threats ricocheting through his mind.

“Excellent,” Azazel clapped his hands together as if Dean has wholeheartedly agreed to the plan, “so really, it all comes down to one simple question, Deano. One question, and you’re home free: Where is he?”

Dean stared at him, mind whirring away with his possible choices. Really though, he didn’t have many, The truth was, he had no idea where his father was. Not even an inkling or an embryonic theory.

“I don’t know where he is, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Dean answered truthfully.

Azazel looked at him for a moment, like he was seeing straight through him. Dean fought the urge to squirm under the intensity of the scrutiny.

“Well, well. John continues to surprise. I didn’t actually think he cared _that_ little about his kids. He didn’t even warn you, did he? Knew I’d be coming for him, and he rabbited off to his little hidey hole and left you all alone. But, no matter. You’re going to call him instead, tell him you have information he needs: you know where I am. See, I’m even helping you out Deano. You won’t even be lying.”

Anger and embarrassment and doubt and _fear_ were coursing through his veins, but he was a hunter. An experienced, trained, good hunter and he wasn’t going to break. Dean had handled pain before. He would handle it now, or die trying. If his last working phone hadn’t gone to shit a week ago, Azazel could’ve called John himself from it. But that phone was gone, and the only way the demon had of contacting him was the phone number in Dean’s head, carefully memorized for emergencies.

“I’m not telling you shit, and I’m not going to call him,” Dean said with a level of calmness he only wished he actually was feeling. “I’d rather die than help you.”

Azazel grinned. “Dean Winchester. You brave, stupid boy. You might just live long enough to change your mind on that one.”

* * * * *

ONE MONTH LATER

He should probably be studying, or writing, or doing pretty much anything other than this. Sam was sitting at the tiny study desk in his cubicle of a dorm room, head resting on his folded arms on the surface. His pen was hovering about an inch off the desk, which was a step up from the half inch he’d been able to achieve before today. Small victories and all that.

It’d been three months since he’d first inadvertently discovered his telekinetic ability. He’d been sitting at the same desk, working on yet another paper, when he’d shifted carelessly and his elbow slammed into his favorite mug. He’d lurched forward to try to grab it as it tipped off the edge. He hadn’t quite managed the physical reach, but the mug stayed in its position as if he had anyways, wobbling and sloshing coffee over its lip.

Sam had gaped at the mug for a few seconds before shifting his attention to something far more interesting. Between him and the mug, barely noticeable, nothing more than a shimmering and fluidly shifting band of.. Something. Sam could feel it, in the part of his mind that was dark and hungry and aching to be let loose, a pull toward it. The tether was spider silk thin, weak and flickering in and out of sight. Sam had blinked, and the line had snapped, sending the mug crashing to the floor where it shattered.

It was just a mug though. Just a mug, but the power had been real, that tether connecting him to something else. But what else could it do? Could the thread grow stronger? Could it thicken and coil into something more useful, something able to move things, to shift atoms, to break bone?

His immediate response was denial, because having special powers would only be a cause for celebration to someone who didn’t know the true price and source of them. But honestly, who could ignore something like that forever? He had wanted to test his new ability out without risking drawing attention to himself, from students or hunters or anything even remotely supernatural. He’d spent the better part of his spring break, when his roommate Evan had left to who-cares-where, covering the room with protective sigils and wards. Several industrial strength invisible ink pens later, his room was as safe as it was ever going to get.

He still couldn’t do much, and it was frustrating Sam nearly as much as the essay he was supposed to working on was. Concentration broken, the tether snapped, and the pen clattered back down. Sam kept his head down and his gaze on the pen. It was a cool power, he had to admit, albeit a weak one for now. But he didn’t know where it came from (or from whom, but that was a much more disturbing idea and Sam decided not to dwell on that possibility). He didn’t know why it’d come to him either.

Apparently you could leave the life of a hunter, but the life of a hunter would haunt you forever. Probably. He hadn't really been gone long enough to verify the forever. It wasn’t very likely that this strange supernatural phenomenon had occurred to him randomly though. But, hell would freeze over before Sam would be the first of the Winchesters to break the chilly silence dominating the space between them. If he absolutely had to, he’d call Dean for help or to see if he could dig up any information.

Sam was the researcher though, so if he hadn’t found anything so far, it was doubtful that Dean would. Dean had plenty of hunter contacts, but Sam wasn’t too keen on the idea of other hunters knowing what was happening to him. He liked being alive, and slapping a big neon _Hey guys! I’m not 100% human anymore! Please kill me!_ sign to his forehead was a really fantastic way to be dead, especially considering the Winchesters had never been too popular in the tiny bubble of the hunting world.

So, no. No outsiders, and no family either. Sam could figure this out himself. Somehow, eventually, and sometime in between all the papers and projects and study sessions.

Introspection like that was a real mood killer. Sam huffed and tried to blow his hair out of his eyes, not that that had ever been effective before. He stared mournfully at the stupid pen, but it only gave a half-hearted twitch. Using his ability was mentally draining, and he could only practice for so long at a time before giving himself an impressive headache. The ache was already settling in.

Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair, cricking his neck and then popping his back. Time to get back to work, because without the thrilling distraction of levitating office products, his mind would’ve drifted back to thoughts of Dean, and he really couldn’t afford that kind of emotional meltdown right now. He had a paper to write on metaphysics ("Time is not real. Agree or disagree?"), and if that 15 page paper tempted Sam to drop out and beg Dean to take him back, well. It’s not like anyone would know about it.

That was the kicker, if Sam were being honest with himself. He’d spent so long planning and scheming and dreaming about college, about Stanford, about a normal life with a wife and kids and a minivan and the works. But he hadn’t realized how much of that was wrapped up in his family, in hunting and anger and bitterness. Now he was here, voluntarily cut off from his family, and he was lost, with nothing left to prove and no one to prove it to.

He wasn’t the only one at Stanford with a sad story, with a bad family, with a beat up duffel bag and a forced smile, with a full ride scholarship and a bloody  _I’m never going back_ engraving on his wrist. He was used to being special, to being the different one, and even if those other kids with one-way tickets only made up a a fraction of a percent of Stanford's student body--it didn't really matter. They were still there, they existed, and Sam noticed them even if not many other people did. Somehow, fitting in that kind of way made Sam want to crawl out of his own skin.

“Are you seriously doing homework on a Friday night?”

Forget crawling, Sam nearly _jumped_ out of his skin. “Jesus _Christ_ , Brady! How many times have we told you not to just walk in our room?”

Brady just shrugged and flopped onto Sam’s bed. Sam was fine with his roommate, they were both fairly quiet and laidback, and they'd come to agreement on pretty much anything that they felt was necessary. Their suite mates, on the other hand, were not so considerate. Brady’s and Trent’s room was connected to Sam’s and Evan’s by a shared bathroom. The doors leading to the bathroom were supposed to lock, but naturally Sam’s was broken and no amount of requested work orders had ever amounted to anything.

There had been many requested work orders. Sam was convinced the maintenance workers had it out for him. Maybe they somehow knew about the invisible ink on the walls and the salt in the windowsill?

Sam had to breathe deeply and quietly grind his teeth to keep from lashing out. He was so not in the mood for this. He was clearly losing his touch if someone like Brady could sneak up on him.

“What do you want?”

“Come to the party with me tonight?”

“No.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Brady whined, “come on, please? I know you hate them, but Ashley’s going to be there! Dude, she is so fucking hot. I just need you there to be my wingman.”

Sam didn’t bother answering, pretending to be intently working on his essay. He had no idea what he was writing, could be _I hate my life_ written five times in a row for all he knew or cared. He just wanted Brady to give up and leave.

“Jessica’s going to be there.”

Sam paused, pen hovering over the paper, and sighed. He didn’t really think he was capable of feeling anything for her, but if there was any chance at all for him to make it with a normal girl, she was his best shot. She was close enough as anybody to what he really wanted, what he missed more than anything. 

A glance over at Brady confirmed that he was grinning widely, triumph written all over his face.

_Damnit_.

“Fine.”

 * * * * *

The ceiling was still leaking. The _plip plip_ ’s were a form of torture all their own. If he didn’t die from his wounds first, Dean was sure he would actually lose his mind. And what a way to go that would be. Dean Winchester, fearless hunter, driven to insanity by some drops of tepid water.

_As long as I tell myself I’m going crazy, then I’m not actually crazy… or something_ , Dean thought, _that’s what they say in movies. I’m crazy. It’s when I don’t think I am that I have to start worrying._

Two more stray droplets landed on his face, one on his nose and one smack in the middle of his eye.

_Motherfucker_.

He was lying in a sad, crumpled heap in a corner of his cell, one wrist shackled to the wall and no other obvious means of restraint keeping him in that position. No more restraints were even necessary at this point. Dean wasn’t sure how long he’d been kept there, but it was long enough that his body had grown so weak that a child could probably have brought him down.

They’d started out pretty simple. Your average beating and whaling, and Dean had thought a little cockily, _That all you got?_

No, it really wasn’t.

They never fed him much to start with, but at some point Azazel had grown frustrated enough to stop feeding him at all. Dean wasn’t complaining. He had too much pain in other areas to bother focusing on the hunger pains gnawing at him. He studiously avoided looking down at his body, because the last time he did that, he almost threw up at the sight of himself. Blood and pus and grime and god knows what trailing and caking along his wounds and the bones that had started to protrude from disappearing layers of fat and muscle.

Yeah, Dean was content to not look or think about it.

After the beatings failed to produce results, they amped it up a bit. One of the muscle bound idiots was a smoker, and Dean’s body was littered with burns from the cigarettes the demon chain smoked. He was missing a fingernail or two or three, but that pain was almost equitable to the pain of having the same fingers missing nails being stomped on and broken. If he ever managed to get out of this, his hand would look so fucked.

He still hadn’t broken.

The knives were brought out next, slices and shallow stabs, because it was too early in the game to let Dean bleed out just yet. They tased him, slapped him around, burned him. The mental games were just as bad, if not worse. Tried to metaphorically strip his dignity and sanity by physically stripping him down to nothing, to touching him, forcing him, laughing at his pain and humiliation.

He’d heard about that prison or the CIA or whoever using the Barney “I love you” song on the loudspeakers as a way to torture their prisoners. Azazel took that idea and ran with it, albeit in his typically demonic asshole way. Dean’s nightly soundtrack was the sound of screaming, crying, begging, wailing, nearly inhuman sounds petering off into nothing. Dean was not the first person they had tortured. He was just the first that they hadn’t bothered to make recordings of.

The sounds kept him up at night. Sleep deprivation was wearing him down, making him delirious, making the pain that much sharper and clearer. The _plip_ ’s were probably coincidental, but hell if they weren’t just as effective.

Dean was still musing on his impending descent into madness and the possibility of somehow drowning himself with the water leakage when his cell door opened with a metallic screech, setting him just that much more on edge. He didn’t otherwise react, however. Dean was kinda proud of that.Even if he had the energy or the motivation, he didn’t want to give the demons the satisfaction.

With his ever faithful muscles trailing him like well-heeled hounds, Azazel strode into the room and came to a stop about a foot away from where Dean was lying naked and shivering on the concrete. He tilted his head, yellow eyes sparking dangerously, and said nothing. He was examining the stab wound near his left hip, a fresh agony that Dean had been doing admirably well at ignoring up until the demon had attracted his attention to it now, the bastard.

“Which one of you,” Azazel said evenly but with a undercurrent of barely contained rage, “is responsible for my golden boy here’s new wound? Funny, I distinctly recall telling you not to inflict any potentially fatal wounds.”

Up until that point, Azazel hadn’t looked up from his inspection of the gory, seeping flesh, but now he whipped around to the two demons who seemed to somehow be shrinking under his gaze.

“Answer me,” he hissed, power lashing out in nearly tangible waves to enforce the command.

Muscle #1, as Dean liked to refer to him as, stuttered out “I did, Sir” like it was physically paining him. Hell, it probably was. Dean didn’t really feel bad for him, or for his likely imminent and painful death. Azazel had given the two demons relatively free rein to try their hand at torturing the information out of Dean even if he wasn’t in the room to supervise, provided they didn’t do anything lethal. Muscle #2 never bothered, he was just there for the chance of promotion in the demon ranks. Muscle #1, on the other hand, was a sadistic son of a bitch. A currently cowering sadistic son of a bitch, but nevertheless.

Last night he had come to Dean’s cell with a brilliantly fucked up plan to both fuck with Dean’s mind and with his body—at the same time! Truly, a high ranking torture master in the making. Without warning he had abandoned his meat suit and shoved his way into Dean’s, knocking around his mind and body and having a grand time at it. He had forced Dean’s body to walk over to the discarded meat suit, retrieve the knife from his belt, and then gleefully made Dean watch as his own hands plunged the blade into his body.

He’d been a little overzealous, the idiot. Apparently depth perception is a little different when you’re stabbing yourself, for all the relative value “yourself” had in that particular situation.

By the time Dean was finished reminiscing on that especially shitty torture session, Azazel was already finished shredding Muscle #1.

The yellow-eyed demon slowly turned around to face Dean’s broken, bloody body on the floor and exhaled heavily through his nostrils, seething. “Well, this does put a kink in my plans, I’ll admit. You’re not going to survive more than another day or two in here, and I still haven’t gotten what I need.”

Before Dean could start feeling too triumphant, Azazel smiled, sending chills racing up and down Dean’s spine.

“You know, I’m almost impressed. Your daddy would be so proud of you for sticking it out this long, not selling him out like the good little soldier boy you are. But, you know what, you may be willing to sacrifice yourself for him, but I think I know someone that wouldn’t be too happy about your dying for John.”

Dean’s heart must have stopped, it must have. _No, no, God_ please _no_ , he begged, but God wasn’t listening.

“A little birdy told me that Sammy boy is going to a party tonight with all of his delightfully normal, boring Stanford friends,” Azazel smirked. “I think we should go liven the place up. Ready to go crash a party, Deano?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still figuring out the best way to tag things, so if I'm rating it higher/lower than need be or if I'm failing to tag something triggering, please let me know!
> 
> Kudos/comments appreciated, but no unsolicited criticism please. :)


End file.
